


A Deal With the Devil

by Descaladumidera



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blackmail, Coercion, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Injury, Graphic Violence, Hobo!Stephen, M/M, Morally Corrupt Character, No Powers!Stephen, Panic Attacks, SIM!Tony, Sexual Coercion, Superior Iron Man, Tags Subject to Change, can be read as non-con, dub-con, no happy ending, tags will be added as I go, this is not a happy story, tony is not a good man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Descaladumidera/pseuds/Descaladumidera
Summary: Stephen lost everything, but he can gain everything again. He just has to make a deal—a deal with the devil.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Comments: 60
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **HEED THE TAGS! I'm not kidding, this will be fucked up and without a happy ending. Tony is a morally corrupt asshole, who takes and takes and takes, because he can. If you don't like this, just close the tab. I won't waste my time with people disagreeing with me on my own fic.**
> 
> Now that that's out of the way—welcome to my new fic! The outline has been lying around for roughly half a year now, and friends of mine have expressed interest in me writing the whole story. So here it is. Have fun. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen finds himself in an … uncomfortable situation. Who would have thought that his day would turn out like this?

It was just another day in an endless string of days, just another insignificant part in Stephen’s life. He had stopped counting at one point, just let time fly by. It was not like he had anywhere to be, no appointments, no friends, no job. It would be rather depressing if he wasn’t used to it. But this had been his life for over a year now (he only knew this because he went homeless in late autumn, and from the rain, the temperatures, and the colorful leaves falling from the trees in Central Park, it was painfully obvious that it was autumn again). At this point he didn’t know anything else anymore, just day after miserable day. Again and again and again. It was an endless repetition, but Stephen didn’t complain. Because why should he? It wouldn’t change anything anyway, and it was his own fault.

He was walking along one of New York City’s busy streets, eyes pinned to the ground, while he set one foot in front of the other. It wasn’t like he had a destination, he just wanted to feel like he was doing something, and walking usually did the trick. He just had to remind himself not to drag his feet, lest he wanted to ruin his shoes. They were a good pair, sturdy and waterproof, perfect for the coming winter. He had worked hard to afford them in spring, after he had had cold and wet feet all winter long, but it hadn’t been a job he had been able to keep. Sweeping the floor in a dingy pizzeria wasn’t exactly something he could do for a long time with his broken hands. But he had gritted his teeth long enough to make enough money to afford this nice pair of shoes and a pair of very warm, soft gloves.

The thing was—Stephen wanted to work, even though the work he was getting now was beneath him. Not that he could be picky, if he was honest with himself. But most jobs were also heavy on the hands, and he could barely move them as they were without screaming in agony. And working forty or more hours a week with his hands would wreck them completely, he knew it. It wasn’t like he had been easy on them once his money had run out and he had ended up homeless. Especially the first winter out on the streets had made him feel every stainless steel pin in his hands, he could hear them rubbing against his bones, could feel them shift under his raw, cold-bitten skin. And as he hadn’t been able to keep them warm, the damage had become worse and worse, and now they were trembling even more than right after his accident; hurt more, too.

But Stephen tried not to think about it, tried to occupy his mind with something else—like the question where he would get his next meal. Maybe one of the street vendors would have some sympathy and throw him a hotdog. He wasn’t exactly choosy as long as it was edible and not rotten. Not that he hadn’t eaten rotten food before, but that had been right after he had become homeless and had been desperate for getting something—anything—into his stomach after days of begging and searching and being ignored, sometimes even kicked and screamed at. He hadn’t even had the strength to yell at them, he had just left with his tail between his legs and had tried his luck on the next corner.

A year later and he had learned. Now he knew how to get food, who to ask, which places to avoid. It had been a steep learning curve, but if you wanted to survive on the streets, you had to pull through. And Stephen did. Not with dignity, but he did.

His path led him along a line of shops, avoiding bumping into other passersby, his hands kept deep in his ratty coat’s pockets, as far away from any harm that could come to them, and keeping them as warm as possible at the same time. The pain was down to a dull throbbing, so Stephen managed to ignore it for the most part. Instead of focusing on his hands any longer, he let his eyes wander. It was always interesting to observe the people around him. As long as he was quiet, they paid him no mind—there were too many homeless people in New York City anyway, so people tended to ignore them as long as they didn’t cause any trouble.

Most people weren’t in a hurry today, Stephen noticed, as it was a relatively nice day for autumn. It was sunny and the last warmth of summer seemed to be pushed on the big, busy city today, luring everyone out onto the streets for one last time until winter struck. It was still chilly and the humidity of the rain from last night didn’t help, but it was a nice day nonetheless. Plus—most people weren’t dealing with pain that got amplified during wet and cold weather. Stephen envied them.

He envied the children running around without a care in the world, envied the adults, walking and talking, sometimes with friends and family who were with them, sometimes on the phone. Some of them looked like they were out to have a good time, some were in business attire, obviously still working, while taking big strides through the crowd around them. He listened to scraps of conversations, tried to imagine the lives these people were leading, thinking about his own life and how much he had lost. It didn’t do him any good, made him moody and grumpy, and he kicked an empty can harder than necessary, so it bounced off a wall on the side and onto the street.

Stephen followed the can with his eyes, wincing as it clattered against the wall, drawing the eyes of some passersby, and eliciting a judging look from an elderly lady, directed at him. After the can ended up on the street and got flattened by a car that Stephen wouldn’t even have touched with a ten-foot-pole in his better days, his eyes snapped to the window on the wall that he had kicked the can against.

It was an electronics shop, TVs in the shop window that ran all day long—mostly the news from what Stephen could tell. The flickering pictures drew his eye and he stepped closer to get a better look. It was never bad to know what was going on in the world, but as soon as he saw who the news was about, he made a face.

“ _Tony Stark is, once again, showing his generous side_ ,” the news anchor said—or at least Stephen assumed she said it as the subtitles running over the screen suggested—a microphone to her lips and an excited crowd in her back, who was calling out to Tony Stark himself. The man was flying in his Iron Man suit over the heads of the people, waving and grinning and being … well, Tony Stark, ego, and narcissism, and all. Stephen didn’t like him. He also didn’t like the new suit Stark was wearing, all chrome and not his usual red-and-gold. Not that he had ever liked the old suit much, but at least it didn’t look outright douche-y. This one on the other hand …

“ _Today Stark has finally released his newest technic wonder—it’s called_ Extremis _and it makes you look beautiful_ ,” the news anchor gushed excitedly and waved behind her in an unprofessional way. Stephen checked the source and wasn’t surprised to see the logo of the _Daily Bugle_. They weren’t exactly known to be professional and it only got worse once they decided to expand from a simple newspaper to also being a news channel. Stephen made a face. “ _This is not an exaggeration. Today you can download the_ Extremis _app onto your StarkPhone and with the free trial you can enhance your looks to the perfect level. Everyone can be objectively beautiful now. Stark Industries didn’t want to give a statement as to how this works, but I think we can all agree that this is groundbreaking! But what else did we expect from Tony Stark?_ ”

Stephen was disgusted. His dislike for Stark mixed with the shallowness of the crowd admiring him made Stephen want to barf. He deliberately ignored that he hadn’t been any better before his accident—extremely shallow and only focused on his outwards appearance. But things had changed, _he_ had changed. He couldn’t watch this any longer, so he turned away and kept walking, once again ignoring everything around him, except for where he put his feet and how close he kept his hands to his body. Knowing the news was important. Knowing what Stark was up to—not so much. Stephen had never liked the man and he despised his urge to make money from selling weapons. It went against everything Stephen had dedicated his life to when he had decided to become a neurosurgeon. Well, he wasn’t one anymore, but he still held the same morals. And his morals told him that Stark was disgusting by profiteering from killing people. If he had any say in it, Stephen wanted to stay as far away from the man as possible.

The problem was, fate was a bitch, and she had it out for Stephen. Or so he would claim later on, when his life went even more to shit.

Stephen pushed all thoughts of Stark aside and kept walking. He could spend his time better than wasting it on thinking about Tony Stark of all people. For example—he could concentrate on dodging people left and right. It suddenly seemed like New York’s busy streets got even busier, which was, quite frankly, nothing to be worried about. Just a regular day in one of Earth’s biggest metropoles.

Stephen was used to it, after living here for years, but in the beginning, when he had moved here, he had been overwhelmed. Coming from a small village in Nebraska, from a family of farmers, it was quite a culture shock to set foot into New York City. Of course he had been to college before, and that had already been nearly too much, but New York … Well, this city was on a completely different level.

It had taken some time, but then Stephen had felt at home, never wanting to go back to his parents’ farm, which had been sold a few years after he had moved to New York. It hadn’t been like anyone had wanted it anymore, after his last close relative—his younger brother—who had taken care of everything, had died.

Stephen’s younger years had been a tumultuous time—his younger sister had died while he had still lived at home, sparking the wish to become a doctor. That he had been watching her while she had been taking a swim in the lake, and had tragically drowned that day, only cemented his decision in wanting to save lives. Then, while he had been away at college, his mother had fallen terribly ill and had died as well, without Stephen being able to make it home in time. His father, never even liking his own kids, had become stricken with grief over the death of his wife and resorted to treating them even worse. Stephen remembered him beating and screaming at them, taking out all his anger and grief on his two sons, who had been trying to come to terms with the death of their own mother. His father had died soon after. Stephen hadn’t visited him on his death bed—not even after his younger brother had begged and pleaded. He hadn’t been to the funeral, either, thinking his father didn’t deserve him showing up.

A few years had gone by after that, without him having much contact with his brother, until he had turned up on Stephen’s doorstep in New York. The visit hadn’t gone well—they had gotten into an argument, screaming and throwing things at each other, neither of them wanting to back down. Stephen couldn’t even remember what their argument had been about, it seemed so silly now.

He never knew if their altercation had been the reason why his brother had crashed his car on his way back home, not getting out alive.

And suddenly Stephen wished his thoughts had stayed centered around Stark as that man was only infuriating, while the memories of his family were painful. Even if, in the end, Stephen hadn’t really cared about them anymore. He had made it a habit to visit his sister’s and his mother’s graves every year, but he couldn’t even do that anymore. He had no means to travel, had no money to his name, no energy, no nothing. His life was on hold and it stopped at the worst time possible.

Not for the first time since his accident he wondered where he would be now if he hadn’t screamed at Christine, hadn’t pushed her away. But it was too late now, he had made his bed, now he had to lie in it, if he liked it or not.

Stephen sighed and looked ahead, his mind still running in circles, pictures of his family coming to the surface, right next to Christine’s face. He really should’ve accepted her help, but he had been frustrated and angry—and scared. Which was no excuse to treat his former lover like shit when she only wanted to help. He had been an idiot. And now he was reaping what he had sowed.

His self-loathing was suddenly brought to a halt when he couldn’t walk anymore. Not because his feet hurt, but because there was a big crowd right in front of him, which would make it nearly impossible to follow the way Stephen had been going. Which meant he would either need to push his way through, which he wasn’t exactly excited for, or he would need to backtrack about four or five blocks to take another way, which wasn’t exactly great as well, but probably the better option. His day was just getting better and better.

Why were people even standing here, blocking the street in the middle of the day? It didn’t look like a demonstration, there were no signs and no shouting—at least no shouting that Stephen would associate with protesting people. People were definitely shouting, but it were happy shouts, shouts of admiration, not sounds an angry mob would make.

Stephen didn’t want to admit it, but he was curious. New York per se was a very busy city, buzzing with activity day and night, and it was probably nothing serious or remotely interesting—at least to Stephen. But he still felt unable to walk away, too captivated by the crowd and whatever was attracting them like a rotting carcass was attracting vultures. Maybe he should have a quick look, assure himself that whatever was going on was completely uninteresting, and then be on his merry way.

So he made the brave decision to take a step forward, right to the outer circle of the crowd. Luckily he was quite tall, which gave him an advantage in finding out what was going on. By standing on his tiptoes, he strained his neck to get a good view, but even then it was nearly impossible to see anything—the crowd was simply too big, and whatever was attracting it, was in the middle of it. But now he wanted to know. He physically couldn’t leave until he knew what was going on. The urge to know was burning in his very veins, urging him on, and so he decided to shuffle his way further to the front, right through the people, who didn’t pay him any mind. They were too captivated by whatever they were seeing that Stephen couldn’t spot yet.

Since he had started to live on the streets, Stephen had developed the talent to become invisible. He could walk by people without them noticing him. It was probably deeply ingrained in the hivemind that was society, that homeless or poor people needed to be ignored, and so they were. Stephen fell into both categories, so he was basically wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak—without wearing it. People just willfully ignored him, making room for him to slip by, so they didn’t touch the dirty human being in their midst. If Stephen would linger and think about it, he was sure he would be sad. Or angry. He didn’t know, because he refused to waste even one thought on this.

But like the people not noticing Stephen, Stephen also didn’t notice the people—or rather what made them look different to the ones he had crossed on his walk here. He didn’t see it. Not yet. But deep down he had a feeling like he was walking into a trap, like a mouse hungry for cheese, not knowing that its end was near, that the trap was set, ready to kill it, without the mouse being able to eat its last meal.

Stephen wanted to stop, didn’t want to walk right into this obvious trap, didn’t want to end up dead like the mouse. But he physically couldn’t stop himself, too intrigued by all the people around him, celebrating something Stephen couldn’t see yet. He wanted to _see_ , to _know_. His mother had always said that his curiosity would kill him one day when he had once again emerged from the dense forest just behind their land, scratched and bruised from his adventures and his latest fight with a raccoon. Maybe she had been right.

He stopped. And the crowd parted.

At first Stephen didn’t know what happened, but then he lifted his eyes, looking straight ahead. For a second he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, but his brain caught up soon enough as Tony Stark smirked at him from about a hundred feet away, his hands still up in the gesture that had made the people step aside and form a path right to Stephen. He kept watching as Stark moved, his silvery-white suit forming around him like liquid metal, his feet slowly lifting from the ground, until he was gliding into Stephen’s direction about two feet from the ground. It was mesmerizing.

Stark landed in front of Stephen, who wasn’t moving, partly because he was shocked, partly because he was curious as to what Stark wanted from him (“ _Your curiosity will kill you one day, Stephen.”_ ). It wasn’t like Stephen was particularly interesting. Right now he was downright disgusting, if he was honest with himself. He was downright filthy, unkempt, his hair and beard were greasy and caked with the dirt of New York’s various alleys, and his clothes were ragged and ready to fall apart if he wasn’t careful. All in all he was the definition of pitiful and he hated it.

But thinking about all of this made one thing clear as day: He was the complete opposite of the people around him. Letting his eyes wander he saw only perfection—perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect body shapes. It was like someone had taken all the photoshopped Hollywood actors and actresses and placed them around Stephen, just to mock him.

And then it hit him. The news report he had watched mere minutes ago had to be about this. _Extremis_ the news anchor had called it. It made people look beautiful and perfect. This had to be the result of Stark’s new app—no wonder Stephen was sticking out like a sore thumb. He didn’t have a phone, and even if he had, he would never be able to afford a StarkPhone. Not anymore. And, thus, he didn’t get the make-over all the others around him had gotten. It made perfect sense that Stark had spotted the only dirty fleabag amidst a population of perfect individuals.

Stark stopped in front of him, still smirking like he knew something Stephen didn’t. Well, he most certainly knew a lot of things Stephen didn’t, he was sure of it, but this felt different. Like Stark had a secret concerning Stephen that Stephen himself wasn’t privy to. It felt … unsettling. That was a good word to describe Stark anyway— _unsettling_. It fit the man so well it made Stephen uncomfortable. He suppressed a shudder.

It was like Stark was a predator and Stephen was the prey, ready to run, but frozen in place, while Stark crouched down, ready to pounce upon his victim, ripping him to shreds. Maybe this was why Stephen felt Stark was unsettling, why he felt uneasy around him and wanted to turn around and just _leave_ , but for some reason he _couldn’t_ , and it scared him. Deep down, in his bones, he felt a chill, like he was in a horror movie and about to be spotted by whatever was lurking in the dark, about to jump him and tear into him, take his heart, his blood, his soul, his life. Yes, Stark was like the evil in a horror movie. And Stephen was the unfortunate teenager who was about to die.

So Stephen just stood there, like a deer in headlights, waiting for his end. Then Stark finally moved, the smirk never leaving his face, and he reached out with one hand, suit retracting, and rough fingers gripping Stephen’s chin, making him look up into blue eyes. It hurt quite a bit, nails digging into Stephen’s skin, probably leaving bruises in their wake.

Stark looked down at him, pity in his eyes at the sad example of a human being Stephen presented, and harrumphed. “Look at that. Someone who doesn’t use my app. Do you not want to use it or … can’t you?” he asked in a condescending tone, his face now inches from Stephen’s dirty one, looking deeply into wide, pale eyes. Stephen wanted to shudder, to run, but he was rooted to the spot, captivated by the smooth voice, stark blue eyes, and the fingers still holding onto his chin. There was no way out.

Stephen knew with certainty that Stark didn’t really expect an answer. He had just asked to taunt Stephen, to dangle something nice and pretty over his head, knowing fully well that Stephen would never be able to jump high enough to reach it. But he also knew that Stark was dangerous, so he swallowed and licked his dry, chapped lips. “I—I can’t. I don’t own a phone,” he rasped, painfully aware of the roughness in his voice. When had been the last time he had spoken out loud? He couldn’t remember. He could feel the looks of the people around them, staring at him, staring _through_ him, like they wanted to dissect him, scan him, take him apart. It made shivers run down his spine, made his insides shake with something akin to fear.

Stark harrumphed again, now finally touching down onto the ground after having hovered in his suit for the past few minutes. Stephen noticed that he was just about as tall as himself— _with_ the help of his suit. He had never thought about it, but, compared to himself, Stark was quite small. Not that this observation would do him any good right now, but it was something he filed away for later. Maybe it would come in handy.

“Can’t afford it?” Stark asked with faux pity, and dragged Stephen’s face just a bit closer to his own. He leaned forward, his mouth now right next to Stephen’s ear, and whispered, “I can help you. I can help you gain what you have lost. But you will owe me.”

Stephen gulped.

He wanted to scream, wanted to just up and leave, but he was still caught by Stark’s magic, unable to save himself. And Stark _knew_ something—something private about Stephen. It had been in his voice, in the way he spoke, with such certainty that he could help Stephen. It made every alarm bell in Stephen’s head ring simultaneously.

He was vividly aware of the crowd around them, still watching them like hungry vultures, ready to pick at the pieces left behind. He thought he might even see the news anchor he had only got a glimpse of on TV before, but he might just imagine her standing there. His collar felt awfully tight all of a sudden, strangling him, depriving him of the dearly needed oxygen, his mouth open in a silent gasp for air. It was warm, far too warm for late autumn, sweat pearling on his forehead, sliding down his temples into his matted hair, the feeling not foreign, but completely unwelcome right now, trying to distract him from the danger right in front of him.

Stark was watching him intently, obviously waiting for an answer, his electric-blue eyes drilling into Stephen’s, and digging, digging, digging, prodding at the insecurities that were lying bare, plain as day, all in Stephen’s posture, in his expression, in his fearful eyes. It was like the other man was stripping him bare, depriving him of his dignity, taking everything from him that was keeping him safe in this city of vultures.

Suddenly there was air in his lungs again, like he was breaking through the surface of the ocean after diving for too long, gasping, gagging, breathing too quickly. His eyes even wider than before, like a scared animal that was looking right into Death’s open maw. It took a minute and a half, but then he found his voice again. It wasn’t confident and more like a squeak than anything else, but he said, “I haven’t lost anything.” He wouldn’t have believed it if he was in Stark’s shoes.

Stephen took a step back, hoping, begging, praying to a deity he didn’t believe in that Stark would just let him go, let him leave intact, without ripping into him, ripping him apart. Without taking his life.

Of course, him being Tony Stark, he wouldn’t let him. Stephen should have known.

“Doctor Stephen Strange,” Stark said loudly, dragging out each syllable, looking like he was tasting the name on his tongue, while Stephen could feel himself go pale. He was sure he was as white as a sheet, his eyes blown wide in panic, hands trembling more than ever, mouth slightly open. How did Stark know his name? He shouldn’t know Stephen’s name, shouldn’t know anything at all! But of course Stark had his ways, had probably some fancy face recognition software that he had used to sus Stephen out. And, obviously, he had found something. And from the expression on Stark’s face it looked like he was enjoying Stephen’s panic, like a sick game. “You lost _a lot_ , didn’t you? Of course you did, no need denying it. A doctor living on the streets—a world famous neurosurgeon at that. Oh, Doctor Strange, how far have you fallen?” Stark mocked without the slightest bit of regret showing on his face. That was just the kind of man he was, and Stephen knew this.

Again Stephen wanted to run, wanted to turn around and never look back. But Stark’s eyes had captured him, kept him imprisoned. It was fear freezing him in place, holding him with her cold, sharp claws, making it unable for him to move a muscle, to just _leave_. He didn’t know why, didn’t understand how his body could betray him like this. He should’ve never set foot into this crowd, should’ve turned around at the first opportunity and walked back the five blocks to take another way. But he hadn’t, and look where that got him.

Stark kept watching him, arms wide open now, a smile on his face, like he was giving a speech. Well, the audience was captivated from what Stephen could tell, watching the people around them out of the corners of his eyes. “Don’t you want your life back? Your hands? You know I can give you exactly what you want, exactly what you _need_. You would just owe me a tiny favor in exchange. Isn’t that a good deal?”

By now it was fairly obvious that Stark knew what had happened to Stephen, about his accident and his treatment and his downfall after failure. And he was offering a solution, a solution that would make him look good in the public’s eye. A small favor in exchange for everything a homeless person would need to get back on their feet? That was one hell of a PR stunt. And it cost Stark basically nothing. He had been in this business since he had been in diapers, he knew how to play the crowd, how to wrap everyone around his little finger. By now it was ingrained in his very being.

“What do you say, _Doctor_ Strange? It’s a good deal, isn’t it?” Stark prompted again after Stephen took too long to give an answer.

_No, it isn’t_ , Stephen wanted to say. Everything in him screamed to turn it down, to run, run, _run_ for his life, because that would be what he would have to do if he declined. But on the other hand—this was Tony Stark, and he had just made everyone physically beautiful, so why shouldn’t he be able to cure Stephen’s hands? It would mean he could work again, could go back to his old life, thrive again, bath in luxury. And it would only cost him one favor … Should he really whore himself out to Tony Stark?

_Oh, Stephen_ , he thought, _you’re playing a dangerous game._

“I—,” he rasped and cleared his throat, his hands painfully clenching and unclenching at his sides as he took a deep breath, before he tried again, mouth dry. “Yes.”

One word.

One word and Stephen felt like he had made a deal with the devil.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen gets to have a shower and a warm meal. Oh, and also a bed. He just doesn't get nice company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is boring, but necessary. Kinda. Also, Stephen gets to watch one of my favorite movies.

Stephen felt numb as he was led through the crowd, eyes fixed on the ground, not daring to look up. His mind was drowning in questions he didn’t have the answers to, the most prominent one being: _Did I make a mistake? (He did, didn’t he?)_

And why was he even asking himself this? It was obviously a mistake to trust someone like Stark; someone who had such a dangerous aura, who unsettled Stephen without doing anything. Stark’s presence alone made him shudder and want to flee, to leave New York City all together, so he would never run into him again. But Stephen had made his choice, and now he had to live with it.

He swallowed one last time, his throat dry like the desert and rough like sandpaper, yearning for a sip of water—which wasn’t a good idea, even if he had anything to drink, as he felt like he would vomit any second. He couldn’t shake this feeling of running into a trap, the wide, open maw of a cat, while he was a mouse trying to find its way.

It didn’t take long to reach the other end of the crowd, where a car was waiting for him, but the walk had felt like an eternity.

Stephen didn’t bother to look around before crawling into the backseat of the shiny vehicle—a polished black car with tinted windows. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was an Audi; he thought he had glimpsed the very telling overlapping circles of the brand. Not that it would make a difference what kind of luxury car would take him … wherever he was going. Probably to his doom.

Stark didn’t join him, instead Stephen watched him take off in his suit, waving to the crowd one last time, before vanishing against the gray autumn sky, which concealed his new suit perfectly. Maybe he would meet him again at his destination—wherever that might be. Stark hadn’t said a word, and Stephen couldn’t get his mouth to work to ask the driver. He felt a bit like he was in shock.

Nothing much happened during the drive. Stephen was sitting in the backseat, head tipped back, eyes closed. Exhaustion suddenly gripped him and held him in a close embrace, while he waited to arrive at his destination. He didn’t know how long it would take, but at this point he didn’t really care anymore. His head was as empty as his stomach, and he was so incredibly tired. He just wanted to eat and sleep—preferably somewhere warm and dry for once. Maybe Stark would let him stay in one of the warehouses while he did whatever it was that would help Stephen with his hands.

When the car finally stopped about half an hour later, Stephen was comfortably warm and didn’t really want to move. But the grumpy face of the driver that peeked through the door when he opened it told Stephen that he shouldn’t dawdle. So he got his long limbs reluctantly out of the cosy warmth and into a chilly underground parking garage. At least it wasn’t windy in here.

The driver silently prompted Stephen to follow him, so he did. It was a burly man who looked like he had never laughed in his life, like he was one of those humorless guys, who just never had fun. That alone deterred Stephen from asking questions, even though he wanted to know where they were (he should’ve paid attention on the way), or what would happen next (not that he thought the man would know—he was _just_ a driver, after all), or if he would get a warm meal (he thought the driver would actually rip his head off if he dared to ask this question). So he stayed silent and just hoped they would get wherever they were heading soon.

His wish was granted when they stopped in front of an elevator and the driver immediately pressed a button to summon it. It took only a few seconds before the doors opened and warm light welcomed them.

“Penthouse,” said the man while Stephen stayed silent. Of course Stark’s property would work with voice commands. Stark himself had probably invented the tech for this place—Stephen had to admit that he was quite impressed with Stark’s genius. That still didn’t mean he had to like the man.

The elevator started to rise smoothly. In fact it was so smooth Stephen nearly didn’t realize they were moving at all. It was a weird feeling. There was also no _ping_ when they arrived at the penthouse, like he had expected, as he was used to it from normal elevators. Of course Stark would get rid of that nuisance, most people were able to tell they could get out of the elevator by it simply _stopping_. It really wasn’t that hard.

When the doors opened, the driver didn’t move, so Stephen didn’t, either. He felt decidedly uncomfortable with the silent man, even though he was silent himself most of the time. Not that he had anyone to talk to anyway. It was still strange, usually people wanted to talk as soon as anyone else was in close proximity—it didn’t matter if they knew the person or not. Stephen had encountered his fair share of chatterboxes and he had dreaded every second in their company.

“Get out,” the man finally snapped and Stephen flinched. How could he know that he should get out by himself? Worst case scenario if he just did, it would lead to someone accusing him of wanting to steal something.

But he didn’t say anything, bit back every sarcastic remark that came to mind, and just left the elevator without looking back. He heard the _whoosh_ of the doors closing behind him not a second later. And then he was alone. It was a strange feeling after spending so much time surrounded by other people, it was like there were no sounds, everything was muted. It felt unnatural—surreal.

Stephen took a careful step forward, looking around in the hopes someone would turn up and tell him what to do. But no such luck. Another tentative step and he realized he was spreading dirt all over the plush carpet lining the floor. Stark certainly wouldn’t like that, Stephen was sure, so he stood still like a statue, not moving another muscle. He had fucked up enough already, Stark was dangerous enough as is, and Stephen didn’t want him annoyed or angry at him on top of that.

So he stood there, not knowing what to do next. Stephen decided he would just wait for someone to come and fetch him—Stark probably had staff who did these kinds of things for him, right? Everyone with that much money had staff to do the tasks they didn’t want to do. It would be questionable if Stark wanted to deal with someone like Stephen himself. It would also be questionable if he would just let Stephen stay here for hours—even though Stephen himself wouldn’t put it past Stark to be _that_ kind of dickish person.

“Doctor Strange?”

That definitely wasn’t Stark. That was a woman. She looked very professional, wearing a well-fitting costume, red hair in a tight bun, eyes fixed on him with a steely expression. Stephen swallowed.

“Yes?” he answered neutrally, still trying to suss her out. Stark’s secretary? Maybe. Or rather his PA? More likely.

She nodded, and then she saw the dirt Stephen had dragged in. He could pinpoint the exact moment as she scrunched up her nose, before putting on her professional face again. It was less than a second and if Stephen hadn’t watched her intensely, he would have missed her disapproval.

Without missing another beat, she said, “I’m Pepper Potts, Mr. Stark’s personal assistant. Follow me.”

And so he did, a bit pleased with himself that he had guessed her profession correctly.

She led him through the spacious penthouse, and if Stephen wouldn’t have been scared out of his mind, he would have looked around and noticed that this place resembled the one he had once lived in. There was no doubt about the expensive taste Stark had, from the furniture to the decorations. From the looks alone everyone could see that one of the paintings on the wall would probably cost as much as a decently sized apartment down in Queens. He wondered briefly if Stark was into art and decor or if this was the doing of Ms. Potts.

Not that it mattered much as Stephen didn’t have eyes for his surroundings. He was awfully aware of his dirty boots, and his generally ratty appearance. Luckily he didn’t drop dirt anymore wherever he went. He had a feeling Ms. Potts would have skinned him alive if he ruined any more of the cream-colored carpet.

Their steps halted in front of a brown, wooden door. Ms. Potts turned towards him and Stephen immediately snapped to attention, his posture going rigid, like he was back in school and Mr. Lawrence called for attendance. “This is your room. A bathroom is attached, clothes are in the closet. You won’t leave this room. If you need anything, there is a panel at the door where you can contact me. Food will be brought to you soon—if you have any allergies use the panel to let me know, so I can tell the kitchen staff. Don’t contact me for unnecessary chatter.”

She only waited for a nod from Stephen, before she turned away and left him then and there, right in front of the door. It was quite peculiar that she trusted him not to snoop around instead of going into his assigned room, but they probably had cameras everywhere and security would most likely be there in a minute to pick him up, should he decide to check the place out. Anyway, he had no doubt that once he entered the room, he wouldn’t even be able to leave, despite Ms. Potts’ warning. Not that he would dare to anyway, as he sure as hell didn’t want to get into any trouble. Especially not with Stark. He still shuddered at the sheer power one person could hold.

With a deep breath Stephen reached out and opened the door, slipping into the room a second later. It was spacious, but he hadn’t expected anything else. Nonetheless, after living on the streets for a year now, not ever having a room to himself (not even always having a roof over his head at night), it was overwhelming. It took him a minute or two of just standing there, open-mouthed, and looking around with wide eyes, before he managed to move again.

Stephen slipped out of his shoes at the first opportunity, putting them neatly next to the door. The floor here was easier to clean, nice, dark parquet, but under the bed was another cream-colored carpet that Stephen didn’t want to ruin. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he could feel that this penthouse had underfloor heating (of course it had—as if Stark would go for anything less), and he was actually relieved to take off his shoes now. The warmth from the floor felt nice through his worn socks, and he contemplated taking them off as well. But first he wanted to explore this room. He didn’t want to call it _his room_ yet as he was still wary. It wasn’t like he had been living here for weeks—he had literally been in this room for less than two minutes, so it felt as foreign to him as Stark’s sudden interest in him.

He walked around and had a look, but there wasn’t really anything unusual—a bed in the middle of the room, headrest touching one wall, a desk under a window that took up the whole upper part of the wall opposite the door, and a TV mounted on the wall facing the bed. Two doors led away from the room, if you didn’t count the one Stephen had just entered through. He tried both of them. One opened up to a bright bathroom, which he decided he would use sooner rather than later, the other to a walk-in closet, filled with, well, clothes. Stephen took a quick peek and actually found some in his size. Of course he did.

In that moment he decided he would really take a shower now. He grabbed a soft shirt, comfy looking sweatpants, and a pair of briefs, before closing the door again. The panel Ms. Potts had talked about came to mind, but he didn’t need anything right now and he didn’t have any allergies he would need to inform anyone about, so he left it be for now.

With a few long strides he was at the bathroom door, slipped in, and placed the fresh clothes on a white drawer. Then he opened the drawer’s doors and found what he had hoped to find there—a white towel that was soft to the touch. He was glad it wasn’t a rough one as he could feel his hands spasm at the thought alone. But this one was really all he had ever wanted for his sore hands, and it felt like touching clouds, so Stephen took it with him to the shower in the corner—a far too big one that could easily fit three people and still have room to move around comfortably. Stephen really didn’t want to think about the reason why Stark would need such a big shower. Well, maybe he only had it just because he could. (Or because the rumors about orgies were true—but Stephen didn’t want his thoughts to go down _that_ rabbit hole.)

Stephen stripped down quickly and stepped into the shower, without wasting another thought on Stark. He was far too excited to be able to have a nice, hot shower right now, he didn’t want to spoil this opportunity with thoughts about Stark.

When the hot water met his body, Stephen finally relaxed with a pleased groan. It had been so long since he had last been able to indulge in this luxury. The last time had been in summer when he had gone to the YMCA and treated himself, because he had been caked with old sweat and grime and he hadn’t been able to stand his own smell anymore. But this was on a whole other level. There were multiple showerheads, one installed right inside the ceiling, and three on each wall, right beneath each other, so they could hit his body from all sides, except the front. It felt like a massage and Stephen had to actively make himself move or he would just keep standing there, enjoying the feeling.

He could’ve showered in the span of a few minutes, but Stephen decided to take his sweet time. It wasn’t like he was in a rush—Ms. Potts had given no indication that he needed to be ready at a certain time, and he was sure they could put the food they were about to bring him into the room without him needing to be there.

On the wall right next to him was a very fancy shower caddy with a selection of various shampoos and body washes. Stephen had never seen such an array of shampoos and body washes outside of a store, but he really shouldn’t be surprised—Stark seemed like the type to take everything to the extreme. With a shrug and the notion that he now had the opportunity to choose whatever struck his fancy, he started to open all of them to take a sniff. If he was already here and had this luxury, he could as well make the best of it. He decided on a shampoo with lemon scent, just because it smelled fresh and he hadn’t felt fresh in ages. After that he wanted a lemon-scented body wash as well, and lo and behold of course there was one.

Stephen gave himself a thorough scrub, before he emerged from the shower about half an hour later, feeling refreshed and like a new man. It was like being reborn. He had forgotten what a good shower could do for your mood, but now he remembered as his body was completely relaxed and his head empty of worrying thoughts. Now he only needed to groom himself and then he could eat something.

He had looked forward to the food the most, but he wanted to be presentable during his first real meal in ages, even though he was sure that no one would join him. He wanted to look his best anyway as it was quite certain that Stark wouldn’t leave him with a simple sandwich—even though right now Stephen would’ve gladly taken anything that was edible. It just felt like he had to look the part.

But first he needed to get himself in order.

Stephen stepped out of the shower and grabbed the towel he had put on the heater. It was amazingly warm, and the soft cloth was heaven against his skin, especially his still hurting hands. At least those had gotten a bit better during his shower, not trembling as much anymore, the pain finally bearable. Maybe he wouldn’t need to bath them in warm water tonight, even though he finally had the opportunity to do so. Well, he would see how they were after his dinner.

For now he just dried himself and slipped into the freshly washed clothes, which smelt and felt amazing. He had already forgotten what it was like to wear clean clothes, and he would’ve never thought it would put him so at ease. Stephen was inclined to just leave the bathroom and lay on the bed, ready to fall asleep.

_No._

He finally had the opportunity to shave himself, and to give himself a much needed haircut. Stephen wasn’t sure if he would be able to do both tonight with his hands as they were, but he wanted to at least try. Maybe he should start with his hair—less possibilities for any damage. He would survive a bad haircut, but probably not a severe cut with a razor blade if his hands decided to spasm in the wrong moment. Yes, maybe he should leave the shaving for tomorrow.

That was if there even were razor blades—or scissors for that matter.

He was lucky, though, and found the utensils right over the sink, in a mirror cabinet that showed him just how unkempt he was. Stephen barely recognized himself. But he would change that soon enough. With determination he grabbed the scissors, the metal cool against his warm skin. It was a weird feeling, holding the scissors like he did. His grip was too tight, but he was scared to drop them, which wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. It wouldn’t be the first time his hands would betray him after his accident. _They were so reliable before_ , Stephen mused with the tiniest bit of heartache.

Slowly he began to cut his hair, starting at the front. It wasn’t so bad if he was honest with himself, he just needed to take his time and be careful. His hands spasmed a few times and they never stopped shaking, but with patience he got it done in the end. It had taken him the better part of an hour, but at least his hair didn’t scream bloody murder anymore. Stephen was actually quite proud of this accomplishment.

With new determination, thanks to his current success, he decided to shave his beard next. But he wanted something different. He had been clean shaven before, but now he was a different person, so he thought he might as well have different facial hair. He started off with trimming it first to a manageable length, before he finally made up his mind as to how he wanted it to look. It was a bit tricky as he had strained his hands a bit too much in the past hour, but he finally managed a neatly cut goatee, not completely unlike Stark’s, but still different enough to not be the same. It irked him a bit that people might think he was just copying Stark, but the good feelings accompanying his new neatly groomed face outweighed his worries.

Oh, he felt so much better. If it just wasn’t for his current situation. Stephen was sure he could live like this, even if his hands would never recover. Maybe he could work as a consultant, make some money, get back on his feet, get an apartment—just not a car. He could use public transportation.

But Stephen also knew that he would grow frustrated again. He would grow to resent the people he would be working with, envying their success, their working hands. His reaction to Christine’s offered help had said it all. He was bitter. And he would need to put in the work to overcome his jealousy, his bitterness, but he wasn’t sure he was mentally ready for that. No. Stephen knew for certain he would never be ready to play a smaller part when he knew he could do so much more. When he knew that he would be better than everyone else, but not being able to prove it, apart from a few articles in old magazines that talked about his success. The world had already forgotten about him.

Pride was a terribly toxic friend.

It hurt, thinking about it, but Stephen had gotten used to the pain that would spread in his chest instead of his hands whenever he thought about his lost career. When he thought about all the work he had put into his studies, all the sleepless nights, all the odd jobs he had to do in order to cover what scholarships didn’t. He had been determined to become a doctor, and he had done it—it had been the proudest day of his life. (Well, right after the birth of his baby sister.)

And he had thrown all this hard work to the curb, because he had been so arrogant, so full of himself. Had felt like he was invincible. Well, his wrecked car told another story, as did his scarred and permanently damaged hands.

Stephen had been humbled since his fall from grace. No longer did he think himself above everyone else (except maybe just a little bit when it came to his expertise in a certain field).

Sometimes he thought he had needed this experience, something—anything—to get him back to the ground, to deflate his ego. But he would have never thought it would come in the form of a destroyed life. And now it was too late to repent. Now he had to take the help of Tony Stark of all people if he wanted at least a bit of his old life back.

Well, Stephen was ready to do whatever it would take. Even if it would kill him. (“ _Your curiosity will kill you one day, Stephen.”_ )

He shook himself free of these thoughts, not wanting to spiral any further and get depressed. He had dealt with this already, he didn’t want to experience it again. No, for now he would go back into the room and wait for the food to be delivered to him, and then he would enjoy his first nice meal in ages. It was out of question that Stark would only serve him the best of the best—at least Stephen would do this if he was in Stark’s shoes. It was a way to show off, and half-assed food would reflect badly on him should Stephen ever decide to speak out against him.

“ _Tony Stark only served me cold chicken nuggets from the day before”_ didn’t exactly make for good publicity. Even though Stephen was sure that Stark couldn’t care less. He was Tony Stark after all, he would just buy and shut down every bad press about himself. Or threaten whoever wrote a slandering article about him. And then he would deal with whoever let the truth sicker through. Stephen shuddered.

He left the ensuite-bathroom and walked to the bed, sitting down on the soft surface. It would be wonderful to sleep in a real bed again, not on one of the cots in the homeless shelters that he had occupied now and again. Stephen didn’t want to think about how many other people had slept on them, riddled with lice or fleas or other parasites—he was lucky enough to not have any of those right now. Stark would have probably had someone give him a flea bath if that had been the case. Stephen made a face.

Before he could dwell more on these thoughts, he decided to have a look around for the remote. There _was_ a TV on the wall after all, and he could do with either the news or some mindless movie to pass the time and feel an ounce of _normal_ in this crazy situation. Soon enough he located the remote on the desk under the window and snatched it, before he let himself fall down onto the bed again, relishing in the elastic bounce of the mattress that caressed his sore back. For a second he wondered once again if he should just go to sleep right then and there, the comfortableness of clean clothes and soft sheets lulling him into a place between sleeping and being awake.

It took a few minutes but then Stephen decided that he couldn’t sleep just yet. There was still the dinner he was waiting for, and he really wanted to watch TV. He didn’t even know where this urge came from, he just knew that he wanted to let some entertainment wash over him. Maybe it was because he hadn’t had the chance to do so in a year. Or maybe he was just like everyone else and liked watching TV sometimes.

Whatever it was, Stephen didn’t care. Was the reason even important right now? He had already decided that he would watch TV while waiting for his food, so the _why_ wasn’t really relevant at all.

And with this thought he finally turned on said TV and switched through the channels to see what was on. He didn’t even know how late it was and if there were any movies on at this point of the day (he should really check the time), but the feeling of _normal_ that a running TV brought eased his mind and made him relax.

Stephen stretched out on the bed, his back resting against a pillow that was leaning against the headrest, while he lazily flipped through the channels, until something caught his eye and he stopped. He frowned.

 _This isn’t good_ , he thought and upped the volume a bit, afraid to miss anything important.

“— _ssed Tony Stark talking to an obviously homeless man, who has been identified as Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange, former neurosurgeon. Strange has been missing for a year now, so it is quite a surprise to see him turn up at Stark’s announcement about_ Extremis _like this_.” At this point the picture they used for Stephen from earlier that day, obviously taken during his … _talk_ … with Stark, was pushed aside to make room for an older photo, one from a gala he had attended with Christine as his plus one.

Stephen remembered the evening vividly. It had been a gathering of the most renown medical professionals, and Christine had hated it. She had told him that they were all stuck-up assholes, who only had their own gain in mind. Looking back Stephen had to admit that she had been right, but at the time he had relished in the spotlight being on him as the youngest successful neurosurgeon in the crowd, complete with a beautiful woman on his arm, who didn’t only have looks but also brains as some old codgers had to find out. Christine had never been one to take any shit from self-centered idiots—Stephen included. He smiled. His heart ached when he thought of Christine and he realized with a pang of sadness that he missed her.

But it was too late as he had to remind himself time and again whenever his thoughts drifted to his former lover and friend. He had burned that bridge—and he had burned it good. Going back and apologizing to her now would probably be too little too late.

He turned his attention back to the news channel—once again it was the _Daily Bugle_ , unsurprisingly. The news anchor, a man this time, was speculating about Stephen’s fall from grace right now, but he seemed to switch to the reason as to why Stark would deem it necessary to help someone like Stephen.

“ _Stark is just generous like that_ ,” he said with an intonation of absolute certainty. “ _We have seen him help the more unfortunate of our peers before, so him taking in Strange is not out of the ordinary. I wonder what he will do to help Strange get back on his feet—but at this point it’s all only speculations. And we at the_ Daily Bugle _pride ourselves in only delivering facts, so we will have to wait for an official statement from either Stark or Strange or Stark’s PR team._ ”

Stephen snorted. The _Daily Bugle_ and delivering facts? That was news to him. The newspaper had always been a big pile of trash, slandering people left and right to get a good story and to up the sold issues. Usually they loved to target famous and infamous people, Spider-Man as a vigilante without oversight being one of their favorite victims and featuring in nearly every issue if Stephen remembered correctly. That they didn’t attempt to drag Stark as well spoke of the absolute power the man had over … well, everything.

But if the _Daily Bugle_ already had a story as to Stark and Stephen’s supposed relationship, it wouldn’t take long until the even more slanderous tabloids would follow suit. By now he was sure that he would be the news story number one for at least a week—depending on how much Stark wanted to milk the good publicity. And the tabloids were surely in a printing rage right now, hell-bent on being the best and first source of any gossip regarding him and Stark.

Stephen made a face. This was not really what he wanted, but nobody would ask him and he knew he couldn’t stop them. So he had to live with this. He wasn’t happy about it, but he also knew he couldn’t change anything about it. Well, ignoring any rumors and gossip it was, then. That was the easiest and most effective way to keep himself sane.

He thought that maybe some of these stories might actually be entertaining and vowed to get his hands on the most outrageous magazines to amuse himself. If nothing else it would at least kill some time to read whatever those tabloids concocted about him and Stark—it would be a lot of assumptions and even more made up stories, he was sure of it. Stephen wondered if Christine—or anyone from his old life, really—was currently listening to the bullshit the _Daily Bugle_ spewed on its news channel, and if they asked themselves what had really become of him. It would be nice to know if they missed him. Even if it was just a little bit.

Stephen decided to switch channels, already getting tired of the constant stream of rumors that the infamous news outlet spewed to gain more viewers—which was probably working. People lapped this stuff up all the time, always on the lookout for more gossip and for others more unfortunate than them, enjoying the fact that they had it better than someone else. If Stephen thought about it, he had to admit that this mindset was disgusting, but it was a mindset about 90% of reality shows banked on. People were simple-minded sometimes and it was easy for others to take advantage of that. He sighed.

His fingers moved on their own already, muscle memory doing the trick of zapping through the channels at a comfortable speed, allowing him to take a glimpse at the program to decide if it was worth watching or not. Mostly it wasn’t.

He finally stopped at a scene that was vaguely familiar, and after a few seconds of searching through his dusty memories he came to the conclusion that it was from _Jaws_. Not his first choice in entertainment but it would do for the time being. At least it was a good movie in Stephen’s book, and so he leaned back, dropped the remote next to himself, and just enjoyed the show.

For a few minutes he entertained the comparison between the movie and his current situation. Obviously Stark was the great white, while Stephen would put himself as either one of its victims or Martin Brody. It would depend on if he would get out of this alive or not. And obviously he wouldn’t kill Stark—he didn’t want to end up in prison. So he decided for now he simply wanted to get out alive and that would be enough to consider himself the main character of the movie.

It was scary enough to think he wouldn’t come out of this unscathed.

About halfway through the movie there was a knock on his door. Stephen had nearly forgotten that he was about to get a meal, but was soon enough reminded of the fact when a serving cart was wheeled into his room without him even making it completely to the door. He suppressed a yelp and took a step to the side, so his toes wouldn’t be squashed by the tiny wheels as the person bringing the food didn’t seem too concerned about hurting him—accidentally or not. To Stephen’s surprise it wasn’t any service personnel (or maybe it was?) but rather the driver who had made Stephen decidedly uncomfortable during the ride here.

Without a word the man left the cart and exited the room, leaving Stephen once again to fend for himself. Not that he minded.

He had a look at the food itself and it didn’t disappoint. It was something that resembled a meal at a five star restaurant, which Stephen still remembered vividly from the time he had been able to afford dining at such places. Today he would most certainly not be able to enter an establishment like that. People working there knew with one look if someone belonged in a place like that or not, they had been trained to be able to suss you out upon seeing you setting one toe into their restaurant. And Stephen had lost his privilege to occupy high society spaces a long time ago.

But at least he could enjoy this meal, something he usually couldn’t afford anymore without selling a kidney (which he would never do—just for the record).

Stephen took the cart to the bed and filled himself a plate, before he cosied up on the soft sheets again, his attention split between the movie that brought him a sense of normalcy and the food that made him feel alive again. Each bite was savored, the fork licked clean, before taking the next. He wasn’t overly concerned for table manners as no one was watching him (he hoped), and he hadn’t bothered in a long time anyway.

The movie was coming to a close, already in its last third, and Stephen was completely focused on the action going on, despite already knowing how it would turn out. It was nice to get immersed in something so trivial again after so long. Just a movie. Nothing more. It was oddly calming.

When he was done eating, he discarded the plate right next to his thigh on the bed, about to be put on the cart as soon as the movie was over. But for now Stephen only wanted to watch the ending without getting distracted (it _was_ really well-done for being produced in 1975 after all). This was such a frivolous thing to do—watching a movie and eating good food. He would have never thought he could do these things again, just like this. Without strings atta—

_Well, that’s not true, is it, Stephen?_

Suddenly his good mood was gone and dark thoughts entered his mind. Again he wondered what Stark actually wanted from him and what the other would gain from plucking him off the streets. It had to be big, because Stephen didn’t think that Stark was _just that nice_. Something bigger was at play here and he was sure he’d find out about it soon enough. The only question that remained now was: Would Stephen be able to live with himself after whatever he would have to do to keep Stark’s favor?

The last thing he wanted was to start hating himself even more.

These thoughts had crippled his enjoyment of the movie and the food and he wasn’t interested in the ending of _Jaws_ anymore, even though he had become quite stoked to see the grand finale in the last hour. He put his empty plate on the cart and turned off the TV, before wheeling the cart to the door. Stephen assumed the door would be locked again, but he tried to open it anyway. Well, it didn’t open—like he assumed—so he left the cart right next to it and went back to the bed, falling down on it gracelessly.

He now had two options: Either stay awake and drift through the endless possibilities as to what his deal with Stark would entail or just go to bed and sleep and see what the next day would bring.

Stephen decided to do the latter, not wanting to get lost in his thoughts, not wanting to spiral out of control. He knew it would end in a panic attack and him trying to flee this situation. No. He needed a clear head to navigate whatever was to come. He had made his decision, now he had to stick to it, if he liked it or not.

It didn’t take long for him to finally fall asleep, wandering into darkness’ sweet abyss.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Stephen was awoken the next day at approximately 9 a.m. by a female voice coming from … everywhere.

“ _Mr. Stark expects you down the hall in the dining room in ten minutes for breakfast, Doctor Strange. Don’t be late._ ”


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen gets his breakfast and a present from Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony appears—yay! And he is an unpleasant bastard—yay!
> 
> TW in the end notes.

Stephen got dressed in fresh clothes as quickly as possible, scrubbed his face as fast as he could, and put on his shoes, before leaving the room. This time the door was unlocked. Interestingly the food cart from last night was gone, which meant he had slept through someone entering the room. Stephen made a face. He really didn’t like that he had slept so deeply. It wasn’t normal anymore—maybe they had put something into his food. He wouldn’t put it past Stark to drug him.

But he really didn’t have time to think about this any further as he only had about two minutes left to get to wherever Stark wanted him to be.

He closed the door behind him and heard a very faint _click_ , indicating it locked right upon falling shut. It wasn’t like Stephen had any possessions left in the room, but this was still unsettling. He stood there for another few seconds before walking down the hall, finding the room he should be in immediately. It was rather obvious by the elegant mahogany desk and the matching chairs filling the space, as well as the food piled upon said table.

Stark was nowhere to be seen.

Stephen had a look around and immediately spotted a clock hanging on the wall. It looked like it was worth more than Stephen’s old condo if he was honest, but at least it told him the time. And the time said that he was punctual—and Stark was, apparently, not. Not that Stephen would ever confront the man about this. He probably had his reasons and who was Stephen to question those?

Furthermore he couldn’t help but notice, once again, the very expensive looking decorations and art pieces on the walls. It fit all very well together, making the whole room look like it came straight out of an interior design magazine for the filthy rich. Stephen hadn’t expected anything else, but it still took him off guard, and he assumed it would stay that way at least for the next few days, until he got used to all the money casually displayed around him.

 _If I survive long enough to get used to it._ The sentence popped into Stephen’s head before he could stop it, and it made him shuddered internally. This wasn’t exactly a pleasant thought to run through his mind, but he couldn’t help it.

“Doctor Strange, please sit down and start with your breakfast. Mr. Stark will join you later, he got held up by urgent matters.” The professional, calculated voice coming out of nowhere made Stephen jump. He hadn’t expected anyone (except maybe for Stark) to turn up in the dining room, but here she was, standing right behind him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with sudden fear.

Ms. Potts.

Of course.

Stephen swallowed and turned around to face her, his expression as neutral as possible as he looked at her. “Good morning, Ms. Potts,” he said as pleasantly as he could, not wanting to antagonize her with the sarcastic tone that was on the tip of his tongue. Usually people greeted each other before saying anything else, and he would be damned if he didn’t show that _he_ had manners, contrary to … well, the other person in the room. Who hadn’t even wished him a good morning.

Ms. Potts didn’t react to his greeting, though, as if he wasn’t worth any kindness. Maybe he wasn’t in her eyes. Maybe she simply saw someone her boss had picked up from the streets and she had to entertain the little vermin that she probably saw Stephen as.

“Mr. Stark should be here in the next thirty minutes. Don’t leave this room,” she said, completely disregarding anything Stephen might want to say. She didn’t even let him answer as she had already left the room again as soon as she had finished speaking. Okay, Stephen didn’t want to talk to her anyway. At least that was what he was telling himself. Deep down he’d rather have her company than Stark’s, but that was nothing that should be said out loud, lest he wanted to lose his life. (Okay, maybe he was getting a bit dramatic about this.)

With a sigh and seeing nothing else he could do, as he really didn’t want to anger anyone by exploring the place, he made his way to the table and sat down. He still wondered where he actually was—he should’ve looked out of the window in the room that had been given to him, it would’ve probably given him a clue as to where they had taken him. Well, it was too late now, but maybe he would have time later. Or he could just ask Stark when he turned up (and if Stephen felt brave enough—he had a feeling he wouldn’t).

For now he simply wanted to eat his breakfast. Two nice meals in a row? That had to be what happiness felt like, he mused, even though he knew he would have to pay a high price for this later. But that was a problem for Future-Stephen. Present-Stephen simply wanted to eat now. Present-Stephen was definitely a dick to Future-Stephen, much like Past-Stephen had been a dick to Present-Stephen, but he couldn’t care less.

He let his eyes wander over the assortment of breakfast food in front of him and quickly decided: Fuck Future-Stephen.

It didn’t take long for him to notice that a lot of the food was barely edible for him as his hands would make preparing or holding anything hard. He could eat some of the bread rolls or some cereal if he took it slow, but everything else asked him to use a knife or a fork and would definitely fall off the cutlery before it could enter his mouth. Stephen briefly wondered if Stark did this on purpose, but then dismissed it. He wasn’t important enough for Stark to torture him with small things. That would be too much work. This was a perfectly fine and normal breakfast with perfectly fine breakfast food. Nothing here was engineered to humiliate him. Hopefully.

He accepted his fate, though, as he didn’t have another choice—other than going hungry, of course. So he tasked himself with cutting up a bread roll—with some difficulty—and putting some cheese on it, before he prepared some cereal to eat later. Hopefully by then it would be soaked and less likely to fall from the spoon, should his hand decide to act up. He also liked soggy cereal and whoever judged him for that could go to hell in his opinion. It was just cereal, after all.

Upon his first bite into the bread roll, tasting the spicy cheese and the soft bread on his tongue, he had to admit that this was really good. Suddenly he didn’t mind not really being able to eat the scrambled eggs and bacon. Or the omelette. Or maybe he could just eat a slice of bacon with his hands, but he was certain that there were cameras around and that Stark was watching his every move. The thought alone was chilling.

Stephen shook his head and took another bite, savoring every little bit of the bread and cheese, thinking about eating another one after being done with the cereal.

Before he finished the bread roll, he decided to take a look around for something to drink and immediately found an assortment of loose tea, and also a pot of coffee. Stephen hadn’t had coffee since his residency as it had started to make him shaky and his hands hadn’t been steady enough to perform surgery anymore. He had thought it was due to the caffeine, but weirdly enough, the caffeine he consumed due to tea didn’t make him shakey. As a doctor he should probably know the reason for this phenomenon, but to his annoyance he didn’t. Maybe he should find out some day.

But instead of dwelling on why he didn’t react well to coffee anymore, Stephen reached for the tea and decided on a fruity mixture of cherries and wild berries that sounded good enough. He put it into the tea infuser next to his cup, his shaking hands making it impossible to not spill some of it. But he managed in the end and looked for some hot water, which he found in another pot, which was placed right behind the one holding coffee. How convenient.

With his tea slowly steeping, Stephen continued eating, finishing his bread roll right before he deemed the tea ready. He waited for another two minutes and then tried a sip, nodding with satisfaction.

He took his time drinking his tea before he started on his cereal as he didn’t deem it soggy enough yet. It wasn’t like he was in a rush, especially because Stark hadn’t turned up yet. It was actually quite peaceful right now and Stephen mused that he could get used to this. If there just wasn’t the nagging feeling of _danger_ in the back of his head every waking minute since he had uttered his little _yes_ towards Stark.

Soon enough he was done with his tea, quite pleased with the experience and hoping he would get to drink some again soon. Maybe he could request some be brought to his room together with a cup and an electric kettle—or would that be too bold? Stephen didn’t want to overdo it and make Stark mad. He already was on Stark’s radar, he didn’t want to make his situation worse. But it was tea …

He would maybe ask if he didn’t shit his pants when Stark finally showed up, Stephen decided. If he was too scared to just be in his presence, he would be too scared to ask a simple question. And the question of where he was right now had priority anyway, so if he dared to ask one question, it would be the one about his whereabouts.

After he had dealt with this mental challenge Stephen put his bowl of cereal in front of himself and started to eat. It was an ordeal as his hands were trembling like always, making milk spill over the edges of the spoon. It took quite a bit of patience to get the spoonful of food to his mouth without soiling the tablecloth in the process, but he managed. It was slow, but he managed.

“Enjoying your meal?”

Startled Stephen dropped the spoon, making milk splash over the rim of the bowl and doing exactly what he had been trying to prevent the whole time—staining the tablecloth and his clothes. Luckily it were only small spots, barely noticeable if you didn’t look for them.

Taking a deep breath he turned towards the source of the voice, seeing Stark standing in the door, clad completely in a suit that probably cost more than Stephen’s watch collection that he sadly had had to sell. On top of the immaculate suit and fitting shoes Stark also wore sunglasses. Inside. Like a douchebag. Luckily Stephen had a tight control over his tongue, so this stayed a simple thought instead of being blurted out for everyone in the vicinity to hear. Not that he was able to form any words anyway right now, shocked and scared into silence. He still couldn’t _really_ estimate Stark’s reaction to … well, anything, really.

So much for _asking_ anything. That wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

Stark smirked. “Cat got your tongue?”

Stephen snapped out of his stupor, but didn’t dare to utter a comeback. Instead he mumbled a submissive _good morning_ , before turning back towards his breakfast, intending to finish it and then get over with whatever Stark wanted from him.

But of course it wasn’t that easy. Stephen heard a _tsks_ , and then felt Stark step behind his chair, a heavy hand landing on his shoulder. He stiffened.

“That’s not very polite, Doctor,” Stark reprimanded him, a warning tone in his voice. Stephen didn’t dare to move. “You didn’t answer my question _and_ you didn’t wish me a clear, loud, and _happy_ good morning, after I have been so hospitable to you.”

If Stephen hadn’t been frozen with fear, he would’ve thrown a sarcastic remark towards Stark, letting him know that his staff was rude and cold and actually _didn’t_ make him feel welcome, and that he probably wouldn’t find any hospitality if he searched for it with a magnifying glass. But as it was, his mouth was locked shut. Which was his luck. Who knew what Stark would do if Stephen spoke his mind? Nothing good, that was for certain, after this display of power.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen choked out after a minute of psyching himself up to speak.

The hand left his shoulder and he could _feel_ Stark smirking smugly behind him. If he wasn’t about to wet his pants, Stephen would be infuriated. Not only with Stark, but with himself as well. What had he become? He acted as spineless as a slug.

But at least he could breathe freely again, now that Stark’s hand wasn’t resting on his shoulder any longer. Stephen wasn’t used to physical touch anymore, never had been a tactile person anyway, so he already would have trouble with a _friendly_ touch. Having Stark grab him in a _threatening_ way made his fight or flight instinct kick in—or not. He had frozen, hadn’t he? There was no fighting and no running. There was only his pathetic display of weakness. If Stephen didn’t have at least a bit of pride left, he would feel sorry for himself.

He watched Stark sit down on the other side of the table, right in front of Stephen, and pour himself a whole mug of coffee. The smell of caffeine finally pulled Stephen out of his fright frenzy and he began to eat again. Maybe his hand holding the spoon was trembling a bit harder than before, but if this was the case, Stephen was hellbent on ignoring it.

It was silent while Stephen slowly ate his cereal and Stark drank his coffee. From the outside it would seem like they had a nice, little breakfast together—like they were old friends. But Stephen knew better. He knew that he himself felt like prey once again, while Stark was watching him like a hawk, like a predator, much like the day before when he had singled Stephen out in the crowd of his admirers. It made Stephen uncomfortable, but he willed himself to appear nonchalant throughout the ordeal, even though he wasn’t sure if it was working. It didn’t _seem_ like it was working. Stephen felt like Stark could _read_ him, inside and out, like he knew every intimate thought Stephen ever had.

It was the eyes.

Stephen was sure it was the eyes. Steelblue, sometimes looking like actual electricity was flowing through them. It was uncanny and abnormal.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Stark suddenly said and Stephen snapped out of his contemplations. Maybe Stark couldn’t read his mind after all.

“Nothing,” he replied right away to his own amazement, and his voice didn’t even waver. The thing was, even though he sounded sincere, he knew Stark knew he wasn’t saying the truth.

“Liar.”

And obviously he was right.

Maybe he should just always be honest. Maybe that would do the trick. If Stark was pissed at him, because he lied, the only conclusion was telling the truth. Always. But what if Stark didn’t like the truth? Wasn’t Stephen as much at risk then as he was if he lied? Stark could be mad at him for lying, but he could also be mad at him for telling the truth. There just was no winning with this man.

Stephen’s head hurt.

There was the sound of impatiently drumming fingers on a table and Stephen looked up, right into those eyes that scared him to death. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on in your head or do I have to make you?” Stark didn’t sound as casual as before anymore, he sounded dangerous, and Stephen knew if he wanted to leave this table intact, he better said whatever Stark wanted to hear.

Stephen cleared his throat. “Your eyes,” he said and put his spoon down when Stark lifted one eyebrow in obvious irritation. Yeah, those two words didn’t do a whole lot Stephen realized and winced. “I mean, they’re just so deeply blue and it looks like … this will sound stupid, but it looks like there’s actual electricity flowing through them. It’s … mesmerizing.”

Stephen had to gratulate himself on that last word. It wasn’t a lie, but it also distracted from the other thoughts he had regarding Stark’s eyes— _terrifying, scary, frightening, soul-eating, mind-reading_.

Stark smiled. It was a toothy, dangerous smile, like a hyena. A shiver ran down Stephen’s spine for the nth time since he had met Stark.

When Stark sat up a bit straighter in his chair, leaning forward, both hands clenched around his mug, Stephen truly felt like being scrutinized by a tiger. That calculating gaze, the bared teeth, ready to clamp down on him, ready to devour him—it was like his worst nightmare come to life. Stephen instinctively leaned back, breakfast and tea forgotten in front of him, while Stark kept smiling that toothy smile of his, capturing Stephen with his gaze alone.

“Are you telling me,” Stark started and Stephen began to sweat, “that I have beautiful eyes? Oh why, thank you, Doctor.”

And that was it. That was all. No sinister actions, no deeply scarring behavior. Just a flirty _thank you_. Stephen felt unbalanced all of a sudden. This simply didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense anymore. How could Stark switch from being the most horrifying being in the entire building to that charming, flirtatious, good-looking guy?

 _Well_ , Stephen thought bitterly, _of course he’s charming. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to wrap everyone around his little finger._

And that was what was so deeply frightening—Stark hadn’t shown any evidence of any dark and unethical behavior yet—well, if you didn’t count the whole _Extremis_ deal, which Stephen found _highly_ unethical. But that was up to interpretation. So why was Stephen so afraid? He didn’t even know if Stark was truly dangerous—evil even. He just had this gut feeling and he was acting on it, which was quite stupid for a rational man like himself.

His head just kept hurting throughout this unusual morning.

“You aren’t really the talkative kind, are you?” Stark asked and ripped Stephen from his thoughts once again. It seemed like the man had a gift to first push Stephen down a rabbit hole of never ending thoughts, only to drag him out by his neck a few minutes later. If it wasn’t so scary, it would be frustrating.

And Stephen still couldn’t pinpoint _why_ he was so afraid of Stark. Well, he would find out soon enough. Or not. Only time could tell.

Stephen looked up and right into Stark’s eyes as he attempted a smile. It felt wobbly. “Apologies. I’m not used to talking to anyone anymore. And this situation here”—he gestured a bit around him, indicating everything and nothing—“isn’t exactly … normal,” he finished lamely. Hell, when had been the last time he had to explain something to someone? It must’ve been _ages_.

Stark just kept staring, right into his soul, making him even more uncomfortable. Then he looked away, towards his mug, and took it to drink the remaining coffee in there. “If that’s the case, you will have to get used to it as I don’t do guessing games. You will answer if I ask you something and you will reply if I talk to you. If you fail to comply, you _will_ have a problem. Believe me, you don’t want to disappoint me—it won’t end well for you.”

Stephen swallowed.

And there it was. The evidence that Stark was dangerous and wouldn’t refrain from intimidating people into compliance. But Stephen had never heard of anyone being directly threatened by Stark, which showed how well the man knew how to keep people quiet. And this was the really terrifying part—Stephen now _knew_ there were others that had been under Stark’s thumb. Nobody was this confident in their words when doing something like this for the first time. No. Stark had experience. And he had kept everyone quiet.

Stephen would never be able to speak up if anything happened. He just knew it. Stark would keep him quiet—probably with whatever means necessary. The thought alone was chilling, so Stephen definitely didn’t want to experience it. But even if he dared to speak out against Stark, who would believe him? The answer was—no one. Stark was too charismatic and Stephen was … well, right now he was nobody.

“Understood,” he said softly, not wanting to let Stark wait any longer for an answer, because now he was legitimately scared as to what would happen if he angered Stark too much.

“Great!” Stark exclaimed loudly and clapped his hands together one time. The sudden sound made Stephen flinch. “So, how about you eat up and then we can talk shop? Sounds great? Sounds great!”

And there really wasn’t anything to be said to that, so Stephen grabbed his spoon again, his hands now not only trembling from their injury, but from Stark’s unsettling presence as well. Meanwhile Stark poured himself more coffee, waiting for Stephen to keep eating, and even though he wasn’t hungry anymore Stephen wanted to finish what was left in his bowl.

This took him quite some time as his hands wouldn’t cooperate, and food would fall from his spoon more often than not. But Stark didn’t say anything, just watched him with his piercing eyes, and Stephen had a feeling that the other was silently amused by his struggles. It felt like Stark was just a second away from taunting him, from humiliating him to the point Stephen would just leave, but by now he wouldn’t even dare to make one wrong move anymore. If Stark didn’t want him to leave, Stephen was sure he wouldn’t be able to leave.

What had he gotten himself into? This was a nightmare.

Stephen willed himself to go slower, to make sure the cereal actually stayed on the spoon, even though he wanted to eat as fast as possible to get this all over with. But he knew it would only take longer if he rushed now and it was so frustrating that he could barely hold back tears.

He just wanted his old life back.

Why did it have to be _him_? Was he really so despicable that he deserved this life? Did he deserve to cause the accident that rendered his hands useless? Did he deserve that no surgery could give him the stability of his hands back? Did he deserve to burn through his savings to save his life? Did he deserve to end up living on the streets?

Did he deserve to be picked up and used by Tony Stark?

Stephen came to the conclusion that the answer was _yes_. To all these questions. He deserved all of this, because it had been his own doing. It was his fault for taking a call while driving and not paying enough attention to the street. It was his fault for seeking more medical treatment, even though he had been told time and again that there was no use. It was his fault for spending all his money on experimental surgeries. It was his fault for not saving some money to keep living. It was his fault for putting his pride above everything else.

And it was his fault for saying _yes_ to Tony Stark’s proposal.

Coming to this conclusion and the fact that Stark was _still_ staring at him, made Stephen’s stomach churn. He was sure if he ate one more bite he would throw up and it wouldn’t be pretty. Luck would have it that he would aim directly at Stark without meaning to, resulting in his own untimely death.

 _No, thank you. I pass_ , Stephen thought and dropped the spoon—more by accident than on purpose—letting it fall into the half-full bowl, making milk splash over the edge and onto the tablecloth and his clothes—for the second time this morning. This breakfast wasn’t exactly going as planned. And he would have to change as soon as possible as he could feel the milk seep through his top this time, making the fabric stick uncomfortably against his skin.

“You’re a bit clumsy, aren’t you, Doctor?” Of course Stark had to comment on this. Stephen should have simply put the spoon down slowly, but his motor skills weren’t exactly the best these days. “This is the second time this morning that you drop your spoon. Not exactly what I would expect from a former neurosurgeon.”

 _Ouch_ , Stephen thought and barely kept himself from wincing. _That hit home._

But apparently Stark wasn’t done yet. He leaned forward, fixing Stephen with his uncanny eyes, and kept talking, “from what I gathered you have been one of the best in your field before your unfortunate accident. It was stupid of me to assume that your hands would still work like before after all they had to endure—shattered upon impact, and then _all those surgeries_ , Doctor. I’m not saying I’m an expert when it comes to medical things, but I’m sure from what I’ve read that you would’ve been better off not attempting all those experimental surgeries to save your hands. Of course this information was only published in small medical magazines—your case has only caught interest for a week or two, after that you were quickly forgotten, except for a few small articles whenever you attempted something new. Of course only to keep the medical world on track that certain practices don’t work on severe nerve damage.

“Now, I thought you could at least hold your cutlery, but I was mistaken. Your hands are completely useless, aren’t they? What wasted potential. You were seen as a young wonder, Doctor Strange, such a _prodigee_. But look at you now—you’re a sad shadow of a once great man. How did it come to this, I wonder? I mean, I have my theories from all I could dig up about you, but it would be nice to hear it from your mouth. Now, tell me, what happened? How did the great Doctor Strange fall from grace?”

Stephen couldn’t speak. It felt like the world around him had stopped, everything slowed down, and he couldn’t breathe. Why was it so hot in here all of a sudden? Why was he shivering? His mouth was dry and his eyes were wet, and he didn’t know what was going on. It was like someone held him in an iron grip, squeezing slowly, until he suffocated and died a horrible, painful death.

_He couldn’t speak._

Someone was talking. There was noise. But Stephen didn’t understand the words, felt like he was underwater, the pressure rising, rising, _rising_ , until he gasped for air, only swallowing water, his lungs quickly filling, growing heavy, dragging him under even faster, deeper, deeper, _deeper_. He was dying, oh god, he was dying, he couldn’t swim, couldn’t reach the surface, couldn’t, couldn’t, _couldn’t_ …

He gasped.

He choked.

He coughed.

Losing control. He couldn’t control his body. Oh god, it felt like he _wasn’t_ even in his body, like he was a spectator, unable to _do_ anything, just standing by, watching this body that looked like his slowly dying in front of him. It was surreal and upsetting and fascinating. He didn’t know what to feel, everything was a mess, his emotions running rampant, while he willed his body to _live_.

It didn’t work …

It didn’t …

It …

“Snap out of it!”

Stephen screamed. There were shadows around him, grasping for him, their cold, dark fingers everywhere on his body, invading his senses, absorbing him, making him one of them. A shadow, just a shadow, dark and cold and alone. All alone. Alone. _Alone_.

Everything went black.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“— _ange_!”

“ _Strange_!”

Stephen opened his eyes. And closed them again immediately. The light was too bright and his head hurt and he felt like he had been overrun by a tank. All in all it wasn’t a pleasant experience to wake up right now. Not to mention that he was lying on something hard and his back wasn’t exactly grateful for the experience.

He groaned and tried to open his eyes again, this time slowly, getting used to the bright light, so he wouldn’t give himself a headache.

“Finally.”

_Oh._

Right. He had heard a voice earlier, saying his name. Or rather shouting it. Who was that? Stephen couldn’t place the voice right now, nor was he exactly keen on focusing on something—in his eyes—so unimportant in this moment.

But apparently the person talking to him didn’t deem themself as unimportant as Stephen did, as he could feel hands grabbing him and putting him into a sitting position. Now he opened his eyes completely, wanting to know who held him upright.

It was Stark.

Of course it was Stark. And he didn’t look happy. His face was sour and he seemed more annoyed than worried about Stephen’s current state, which wasn’t exactly surprising.

What had happened?

“You with me again, Strange? Dear god, do I need to hire a babysitter for you?” Stark let go of him and stood up, leaving Stephen sitting on the floor all by himself. He sounded rather irate as he kept talking, making Stephen clench his lips and shrink into himself, “if I had known you would be so much trouble, I wouldn’t have taken you here. But as it is now I can hardly kick you out—bad press and all that, Pepper would kill me. So you better get up from the floor and sit on your chair again, so we can finally talk business. And hurry up, I don’t have all day.”

Stephen rushed to clamber to his feet, stumbling along the way as his vision blurred and shortly went black, because he got up too fast. It wasn’t pleasant, but he grit his teeth and clutched the backrest of his chair a bit too hard, his hand spasming due to the force he used, so he wouldn’t tip over. God, he was pathetic.

“Sit. Down.” Stark sounded impatient and Stephen didn’t want to aggravate him further.

He did as he was told and took a deep breath, trying to center himself. He had already figured out that he had had a panic attack and he didn’t really want to have a repeat performance. So keeping calm and collected was his best bet—and hoping that Stark wouldn’t touch upon any triggering topics anymore. The latter was probably wishful thinking, and Stephen prepared himself mentally as well as he could, just in case he would be confronted with another trigger.

Stephen was still short of breath, but he was as calm as he could be in this situation, even though his whole body was still shaking, trying to work through the trauma it just had experienced.

Stark cleared his throat and Stephen snapped to attention, head shooting up and locking eyes with the other man. God, these eyes. They would be Stephen’s demise. It was like Stark could control him with them, could make Stephen dance like his little marionette just with one look. Of course Stephen knew that this wasn’t possible—and Stark didn’t need some hypnotic trick to make people do whatever he wanted.

“Finally,” Stark said, anger easily detectable in his voice. “Got any other problems I should know about? I wouldn’t want to break your fragile self.”

The mockery hurt, but was expected, so Stephen didn’t react to that. Instead he said, “nothing. Apologies for this.” He didn’t know what else to say, so he stayed silent, waiting for Stark to take the lead.

Stark nodded, seemingly satisfied with Stephen’s answer. “Good.”

Stephen let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The subconscious could be odd like this sometimes.

Instead of saying anything else, Stark pulled a phone out of his pocket. This didn’t seem out of the ordinary for Stephen as Stark was a very tech affine man, so it was only natural he would use his phone whenever he deemed it necessary. And this seemed to be a time like that, so Stephen waited patiently for Stark to address him again.

But Stark didn’t use the phone. No, he put it on the table and pushed it over to Stephen. It stopped right next to his still half-full bowl of cereal. For a few seconds it just lay there while Stephen stared, not sure what to make of this.

He looked at Stark again and the puzzled expression on his face probably said it all.

“Take it and turn it on,” Stark ordered, obviously impatient with Stephen’s inactivity.

Stephen did as he was told, like he was in trance. It had been so long since he had held a phone, it felt completely surreal. He wasn’t even sure he was holding it right—it felt so _wrong_. Or maybe it was just because of the phone itself as it was light and looked extremely fragile. Stephen was scared to drop it, especially with his unsteady hands. It was bound to happen at one point.

He could _feel_ Stark rolling his eyes and getting annoyed with him again as the man sighed and started to drum his fingers on the table. Stephen hurried to turn on the phone, hands shaking, needing two tries to press the button, but in the end the display lit up with the word _StarkPhone_ in the _Stark Industries_ typical font and the usual jingle associated with the company’s phone product line.

That much was to be expected. What he didn’t expect was the sudden voice coming from the device and he nearly dropped it, before catching it with the tips of his fingers, effectively saving it from falling to the ground. “ _Hello, Doctor Strange. I am FRIDAY, we already met this morning_ ”—Stephen remembered the same voice coming from the walls (or speakers _in_ the walls, more likely)—“ _I will help you navigate and use your new StarkPhone. If you have any questions, you may just ask, I will do my best to answer all inquiries._ ”

Stephen, with his formerly well-paying job, had of course owned StarkPhones before, but none of them ever had had a feature like this. He didn’t really keep up with the newest tech nowadays, but he was sure he would’ve heard about FRIDAY by now if this AI were a standard program for new phones—the crazy fans would’ve shouted it from the rooftops. But considering that the same voice had ordered him to the dining room this morning, he was sure this was a custom made phone. Probably so that Stark could keep an eye on him. It wouldn’t even surprise Stephen if that were the case.

Next thing he knew an app popped up without him doing anything. Stephen immediately recognized it as the _Extremis_ app as he had seen it before on the news channel while walking the streets yesterday. He dropped the phone on the table.

“I don’t want this!” He bit out, tone venomous, eyes shooting daggers at Stark’s nonchalant grin. Stephen didn’t know where the sudden courage came from, but he gladly took it and kept it close, so it wouldn’t run away from him in the next few seconds as he was sure Stark wouldn’t react kindly to his outburst.

But Stark didn’t react like Stephen had predicted. No, instead of berating Stephen or outright threatening him like before, Stark stayed calm, confidence oozing from every pore as he said, “oh, but you _do_.”

Then Stark’s eyes lit up, their blue streaked with electric energy. Another jingle played from the phone. _Extremis_ activated. Stephen’s hands stopped shaking. There was no pain anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a panic attack. If you want to skip that part, stop reading after
> 
>  _“Now, I thought you could at least hold your cutlery, but I was mistaken. Your hands are completely useless, aren’t they? What wasted potential. You were seen as a young wonder, Doctor Strange, such a_ prodigy _. But look at you now—you’re a sad shadow of a once great man. How did it come to this, I wonder? I mean, I have my theories from all I could dig up about you, but it would be nice to hear it from your mouth. Now, tell me, what happened? How did the great Doctor Strange fall from grace?”_
> 
> and start again after the horizontal line break.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen goes on a tour. It's not a nice one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to another episode of "How To Torture Stephen Strange!"
> 
> TW in the end notes.

Stephen just sat there, not knowing what to do. He was speechless, staring at his now steady hands, no scars visible anymore. If he were an emotional human being, he was sure he would start to cry (and he came close, so very close). But he wasn’t. He wouldn’t even know what to do if he started crying in front of Stark of all people. And so he just kept sitting there, still staring at his unblemished hands, all pale, smooth skin and long fingers. They hadn’t looked like this for over a year. It was magical.

“So … the deal,” Stark drawled, dragging Stephen out of his trance, making him look up, once again getting caught by Stark’s unusual eyes. He felt like he had to nod, so he did, placing his hands carefully on the table in front of him, as if he didn’t want to risk hurting them. Stark smiled. It was unsettling. “You owe me a favor for this.” _This_ obviously being Stephen’s now steady hands, as Stark gestured smoothly in their general direction.

Stephen sighed, cleared his throat, and wet his lips, before he forced out the sentence he had been dreading since he had accepted Stark’s proposal the day before, “what do you want?”

Stark’s smile got even wider, almost shark-like, his eyes glinting dangerously as he got up, walked around the table, and came to a stop right next to Stephen. He bent down and Stephen could feel hot breath at his ear, making an unpleasant shiver run down his spine, as Stark leaned on the table with one hand right next to Stephen’s. It was an obvious display of power over Stephen’s current situation, Stark’s hands so close to his own, able to break them again in the fraction of a second if he wanted to. Not that he thought Stark would do the dirty work himself.

Stephen shuddered when a rough thumb brushed over his skin.

And then Stark’s voice filled his ear, hot breath ghosting over his shell as he said one word.

“You.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


_It’s one time. Just one time_ , Stephen kept telling himself over and over as he followed Stark. Presumably to the other’s bedroom. _One time and then I can get my life back._

Stephen would’ve never thought he’d whore himself out for his career at one point. He had thought he had enough pride to say no to such a proposition. Well, he had been wrong, hadn’t he? Because here he was, answering to Stark’s simple _you_ by following the other man without further questions.

If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t so bad, really. One time having sex with a dangerous but good-looking man in exchange for his hands? He could get his whole life back and it would only cost him one fuck. People around the world did this all the time. It was a good deal. And here he had been, thinking it would be so much worse. It would be a few hours and then he would just leave and never look back. That would actually be nice.

After thinking about it he was almost relieved.

But to his surprise they didn’t go further down the floor towards what Stephen assumed to be Stark’s bedroom, but the other way to the elevator. Maybe they would go up? But that wasn’t possible as this was the penthouse already, there had been no indication that there was another floor above this one. Even though Stephen wondered why Stark would let him stay in his private quarters—it didn’t make sense. Another floor with guest rooms would have surely been the better option, wouldn’t it? Well, he already knew he got tongue-tied around Stark, so asking about the _why_ was out of the question for now. Well, maybe he would find out one day. Considering that going up was most likely not an option, the only conclusion was that they would be going down, and Stephen wondered where Stark would take him.

Another thing that took him by surprise was Stark stopping right in front of the room Stephen had slept in. “Go and change,” Stark ordered with a sharp look at Stephen’s milk drenched top, and Stephen winced. He had already forgotten about that. But now that he was reminded of the state of his clothes he suddenly felt the cool liquid on his skin again. It was uncomfortable.

He hurried into the room and fished a fresh sweater out of the walk-in closet, switched his old one for the new one in a matter of seconds, and left the room in less than two minutes. Stark seemed pleased.

Stephen noticed that he wouldn’t have been able to change so quickly if his hands had still been damaged. But now that they were healed, they didn’t act up anymore, didn’t hurt if he gripped something too hard, didn’t spasm if he overworked them. It was such a relief that his feelings were close to overwhelming him once more, nearly leading him to sit down and cry. But he didn’t have time for being overly emotional right now as Stark was already walking again, right up to the elevator. Stephen made haste to follow him, and stepped into the elevator right behind Stark.

“Floor thirty-one,” Stark said, and this time Stephen wasn’t even surprised anymore.

Of course they were going down. There probably wasn’t much _above_ the penthouse anyway, maybe it wasn’t even accessible by elevator. Stephen thought he might have seen some stairs leading up, though, but he wasn’t entirely sure about that. If, at one point, he was free to move around the penthouse, instead of staying in the room that had been assigned to him, he would have to look for it. It would be amazing to be able to get on the roof of a building this tall—the view had to be amazing!

And as an added bonus Stephen would finally get to know where exactly he was.

He didn’t know yet that his location would slap him in the face in the next few minutes, without him even chancing a look outside.

The elevator stopped at the designated floor and Stephen followed Stark outside into a long corridor, glass walls and doors left and right. This was quite peculiar and nothing he had expected. This morning was, apparently, full of surprises. He looked around a bit more, and upon a second glance Stephen figured it were … “Labs?”

“Of course,” Stark replied with a hint of impatience and annoyance, which Stephen came to associate with the man whenever he didn’t like Stephen’s behavior. “What else did you expect to be on the thirty-first floor of _Stark Tower_?”

_Oh._

That made sense. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought about this? Stephen wanted to bash his head against the next wall. He had been so utterly stupid! Of course Stark would take him to the tower, where he _lived_. Of course he would want to keep Stephen close to keep an eye on him. Of course he would have a penthouse here.

Stephen felt so completely and inexplicably stupid.

Out of fear to say anything else that would show him as an idiot in Stark’s eyes he kept silent for the rest of the journey, not daring to utter a single word, unusually meek. It would be rather out of character for him in normal circumstances, but nothing about this was normal in the least. Stephen would even argue that being submissive and silent was his new normal whenever he was in Stark’s presence. It was like his survival instinct kicked in and told him to keep his head low and his mouth shut. The man just had this aura that made Stephen crawl inside himself out of fear. If Christine could see him right now, she would probably laugh, thinking he was joking. Nobody who had known Stephen before would say he was the silent and submissive type. It would be odd to them. Alien even. But Stephen was living the sad truth right now.

And he still didn’t know what Stark wanted, why he would drag him to his company’s labs. None of this made any sense!

Stark seemed to catch on to Stephen’s inner conflict as he turned towards his guest with a smile that made Stephen feel uneasy to the core. “I need your expertise, _Doctor_ ,” Stark said, emphasizing Stephen’s title, still as self-confident as ever. It made Stephen itch to get away. Far away. Preferably to another country. Better even, another planet. (They were still looking for people to test living on Mars, right?) But he knew he couldn’t. Even if he would dare to make a run for it, he knew Stark would find him sooner or later. His bet was on sooner. Stark would maybe even play with him, make him think he got away, only to appear as a looming shadow right behind him, reaching out to him with his hands, holding him in an iron grip. Like a cat playing with a mouse. Stephen shuddered.

But Stark still expected a reaction that wasn’t Stephen losing his wits, so he cleared his throat and nodded. “What for?” he forced out. Whatever it would be, it couldn’t be much worse than whoring himself out to Tony Stark of all people, could it?

_Well, considering who I’m dealing with, it can be way worse_ , Stephen thought bitterly, but waited patiently for Stark to answer.

They stopped in front of a lab at the far side of the building and Stark opened the door. He had yet to answer Stephen’s question, but Stephen was sure he would get to it. But upon entering the lab and Stark turning on the lights, Stephen forgot about the owed answer immediately. It was a high-tech lab like Stephen had never seen before—and he had worked in some of the world’s most famous labs during his career. Even his old hospital, which hadn’t been exactly short on funds, didn’t have a lab that came close to this. It seemed like this place had every bit of tech available that a surgeon could dream of.

“ _Stark Industries_ wants to expand into the medical sector,” Stark explained then, and Stephen noticed that he himself was staring, “and we need some experts on that matter. Now, of course I could just walk into the next hospital and ask for the best of the best in every field, but that would be no fun, would it? So finding you was quite the lottery win. Someone desperate enough that he isn’t led by morals, because a lot of medical professionals would probably decline my offer. You see, I want to privatize healthcare.”

_Ah, that explains a lot_ , Stephen thought immediately and it took everything to keep his expression neutral. Privatizing healthcare was simply disgusting. It was bad enough in the US as it was, but Stephen could only imagine what would happen if Stark got his way.

“Now,” Stark started to speak again, while walking further into the lab, obviously expecting Stephen to follow him, which he did, like in trance, “you will probably say that the pharma industries already privatized healthcare in this country—and I can’t deny that! But just imagine if _Stark Industries_ produces even better medicine, better prosthetics, better _anything_ —for _cheaper_. People would lap it up and my company can manage to make things more accessible easily. But there will be a catch—we don’t want them to jump ship immediately if something better comes along, do we? No. No, we don’t. There will be some sort of contract that they are only allowed to purchase _Stark Industries_ products and nothing else. Some kind of health card or something. Pepper is working on it as we speak. Now, what do you say, _Doctor_?”

_You’re disgusting!_ Stephen wanted to scream, anger filling every inch of his body, but he bit his tongue as hard as he could. He could taste blood.

Now everything made sense. Stark wanted to privatize healthcare, wanted the monopoly on the market, and in order to do so he needed experts in the field. Well, Stephen was an expert. In fact he would be of incredible use to Stark as he not only knew what patients needed, but also what _hospitals_ wanted. He could give input about equipment, about new techniques that weren’t possible yet due to missing technology, about how to automate the whole health sector in itself.

It was really, really disgusting in Stephen’s opinion and he knew he had to say no, had to decline. He was just scared what Stark would do then. Would he let Stephen go? Would he blackmail him? Manipulate him? Just _force_ him? All these were very real possibilities and Stephen dreaded even the thought of them.

Of course Stark could also be okay with it and let him go. But in Stephen’s eyes this was most certainly the last thing the man would do.

The question now was—what would Stephen do? Would he say _no_ and risk Stark’s wrath with only a slight possibility of getting out unscathed? Or would he say _yes_ and just roll with it, knowingly dooming everyone in the US, who was desperate enough to seek the cheapest and, in their eyes, most trustworthy solution to their medical problems? Which was a given considering the failure of their healthcare system.

It left Stephen in quite a bind. His life or the life of billions of other people?

Not to mention that Stark would easily find someone else if Stephen declined. But it was about the principle of the thing. And as a matter of principle Stephen simply couldn’t condone this.

And meanwhile Stark was still waiting for an answer, while Stephen fought with himself on how to choose. It was a battle he could only lose. There just wasn’t a way of winning if he thought about it any further. In the end there would only be one winner—Stark.

Stark cleared his throat and Stephen snapped to attention. They stood in the middle of the lab and it itched in Stephen’s fingers to get his hands on all the tech that was displayed around him. Oh, how he would love to study every little bit, looking at how it could be used in the medical sector. It made the decision he was about to make so much harder.

“I’m sorry,” he said and could feel his breath leaving him, his lungs shrinking into themselves as he tried to take a deep breath, “but I can’t help you.”

He could see Stark’s eyes changing in the brightly lit lab, the blue streaked with energy, nearly glowing. It was scary, especially because Stephen still didn’t know what caused this phenomenon. Stark hadn’t given him a satisfying answer during their breakfast, after all. And now he was sure he would never find out. Either because Stark would kick him out—or kill him. The latter being the more plausible possibility in this situation.

“Excuse me?” Stark sounded dangerous, taking a step towards Stephen.

It took everything in him not to take a respective step back. Stephen knew he had to stand his ground right now and not show any fear. Similar to his interaction with the dogs that had lived on their farm when he had still been a child. They had been big and wild and had been trained to keep the farm safe, not to be nice pets. His parents had warned him time and again that they were not his playmates. He had learned it the hard way when the older dog had bitten him in the arm, leading to Stephen needing stitches, the dog being put down, and Stephen getting the beating of a lifetime.

He had never dared to play with guard dogs again.

Until now.

Stephen swallowed. “I morally can’t do this. I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”

There was silence.

Then Stark’s whole demeanor changed. His face became neutral, his eyes switched back to their normal electric blue, not glowing anymore, his whole posture changed to a relaxed yet straight stance. All in all he looked like a very pleasant companion right now.

Stephen knew that appearances could fool.

“Very well,” Stark said calmly and put his hands together, so they formed a triangle. “I guess I can’t exactly _force_ you to work with me.”

_Yes, you could if you wanted to._ The thought ran through Stephen’s mind before he could stop it. _I’m just scared that you know more effective ways to make people obey you._

But instead of speaking his thoughts, Stephen simply nodded. What else could he do? He just hoped that he could leave this place intact in the next few minutes. But realistically he knew he wouldn’t be able to leave. Not if Stark didn’t want him to.

Stark took a step towards Stephen and now there was barely a foot between them. Stephen didn’t move, didn’t even dare to breathe. Stark’s whole presence was overwhelming, making Stephen cower in fear on the inside. Luckily he had enough control over his body to keep himself from moving.

With a theatralic sigh Stark’s eyes glowed once again. “I’m so sorry it had to come to this.”

Hot, searing pain.

That was all Stephen could feel only seconds after Stark had stopped speaking. His hands were on fire, spasming, feeling like they were breaking all over again, like someone was beating the stainless steel pins back in with a sledgehammer. It was agony, pure and utter _agony_.

Stephen could barely keep himself from screaming, instead cradling his hands against his chest, bending over in pain, biting his lip until it bled. He could taste the warm, wet copper on his tongue, but it couldn’t distract him from the hellfire blazing in his hands, in every single finger. It took his breath away.

He didn’t even notice Stark crouching down in front of him, getting to his level. Stephen was now nearly sitting on the floor, breathing rapidly, still holding his hands close, before he fell to his knees. The impact didn’t even faze him. The scars had reappeared and he could feel the pins in his bones shift, grating against each other, against the inside of his skin. It made his stomach churn, made bile rise up in his throat. But he had enough awareness to keep himself from vomiting all over the floor.

There was still the pain, though, the pain he tried to breathe away, the pain he wanted to keep at bay by holding his hands close. Had it hurt like this the first time? He wouldn’t know, he had been unconscious. And in retrospect he was glad about that as he hadn’t witnessed the initial pain flooding through his limbs. Now he knew what it must have felt like. Now he lived it once again. And it was hell.

But Stephen knew he would get used to it. He had done it before, he could do it again. He just needed patience. And time. And maybe some ice.

“Oh, you poor soul,” Stark cooed, his tone full of false pity, but his voice barely reached Stephen’s ears. He sounded muffled, like Stephen was hiding under a heavy blanket and Stark was one room away.

There were hands, reaching out for Stephen. They were tan and rough, calluses from years of working with them grazing against Stephen’s sensitive skin. It felt like someone was rubbing sandpaper all over him, rubbing off layers upon layers of his flesh.

And then Stark’s hands touched his, making Stephen scream as they were dragged from his chest, held tightly by Stark.

“Look,” Stark said sardonically, and Stephen forced himself to listen, to look at the man, “I really don’t like to hurt you, but I will to get what I want.”

_Liar!_ It screamed in Stephen’s head, but the pain kept him from speaking. He could only muster screams right now, his body unable to do anything else.

Hot tears were pricking at his eyes and it became harder and harder to keep them at bay. Especially now that Stark was tugging at his hands, holding them in his own with a rough grip that got tighter and tighter with each second that passed. It was a nightmare. Like the ones Stephen had had for a year, which woke him up, screaming his lungs out, left him shaking and sweating and unable to go back to sleep.

He felt like he was in one of his nightmares right now, experiencing the fear and pain of his accident all over again, while Stark tormented him by squeezing his hands, rubbing them against each other, making every little stainless steel pin rub against the inside of his flesh, grating against his bones. Stephen could nearly imagine hearing the scraping noise and it made him want to vomit. The thought alone let goosebumps appear on his skin, made him shudder in utter repulsion.

“This can all be over soon, Doctor,” Stark kept saying, his mouth now only inches from Stephen’s ear once again, hot breath moist against his flesh. “You can just accept my offer and the pain will be gone. If you don’t … Let’s say you will leave here worse than you got here. But you will leave alive, so I think that speaks for my generosity.”

Stephen wanted to sob. He could either compromise the few morals he had left or he could leave here, battered and even more broken than before. When Stark was done with him, Stephen had no doubt, he would never be able to use his hands ever again, even if he found a mysterious cure at one point. It was a lose-lose situation and he cursed himself for accepting Stark’s offer in the first place.

“I’m waiting for an answer, Doctor,” Stark sang in an overly chipper tone, which Stephen found repulsive. The man was mocking him without remorse, while Stephen was at his lowest—it spoke of how well Stephen could estimate Stark’s behavior by now, after only spending a short amount of time in the man’s presence, that he wasn’t even surprised anymore.

But he simply couldn’t do it. He couldn’t. He thought about how this would affect Christine and Nic, and everyone else at his old workplace. In the beginning they would be overjoyed, happy to have new technology, new ways to help people, new _everything_. But Stephen knew this came with a price. The hospital would have to sign some cutthroat contract, putting its workers in a bad place. His old colleagues would be the ones to suffer, and as much as Stephen had been a right jerk and asshole all his life—he didn’t wish this upon them. Especially not Christine. Oh, how he missed her. He would go back to her in a heartbeat now, but he also knew _he_ would make her suffer. With his damn pride and his damn uselessness.

He hated it.

“ _Doctor_.” Stark’s patience was thinning, that much Stephen could hear—and feel by the painful squeeze to his hands.

“I can’t!” He sobbed, finally, throwing himself to the wolves. Or rather to the one wolf, kneeling on the floor right in front of him, teeth bared and already biting down on Stephen’s neck, about to break it with one swift movement.

Before Stephen could do anything, Stark janked him forwards in obvious anger, making him fall on his hands, crying out in pain. He couldn’t react, it was all so fast and nothing like he had expected. Stephen wouldn’t have thought that Stark did the dirty work himself, but he was about to learn that his expectations were wrong in the next few seconds, as Stark stood up, lifted his right foot and stomped down on Stephen’s already broken hands.

Stephen couldn’t recall ever screaming this loud in his entire life. Not even when he had figured out his sister had drowned. Not even then had he screamed for his parents at such a volume.

His hands were on fire, being crushed, crushed, _crushed_ all over again. He could feel bones and stainless steel pins breaking through his skin, could feel them rubbing against the floor, making scraping noises, could feel the weight of the boot on both of his hands. He just knew not even hell could be this bad. Nothing could be worse than this. This pain came straight from the devil himself and he hated Stephen for refusing to work for him.

It was agony and Stephen couldn’t _think_. It was impossible to focus on anything but his hands, being pressed cruelly against the cool floor by those boots, while Stark put more and more weight on Stephen’s fragile limbs. He pressed down further and further and Stephen swore he could feel his hands breaking through the floor, damaging the tiles beneath them through the sheer force of Stark’s pressure on them.

Stephen didn’t know if he was still screaming. Tears were now freely flowing down his cheeks, dripping to the floor, leaving wet tracks on his skin. He was bawling like a child who scraped their knees during playtime. But this was a million times worse.

Did he still deserve this? Did he deserve to be tortured, tormented with his old wounds just because he didn’t want to go against his morals? Maybe. Maybe he did.

“P—please!” Stephen choked through tears and snot and pain, hoping Stark would hear his wretched little voice. Hoping Stark would _stop_. He couldn’t do this any longer, couldn’t go on like this. When would Stark stop by himself and let Stephen go? It could go on for hours and Stephen just wasn’t that strong. He was weak and pathetic and he thought he deserved everything that was coming for him.

_I deserve this, but please make it stop!_

A sob tore through his sore throat, making him beg again and again for Stark to stop, for the pain to go away. He wanted everything to go back to normal, wanted the time to reverse to yesterday before he had stumbled upon the crowd of Stark worshippers. By now he wouldn’t even mind only getting his life after the accident back.

But Stark kept going, not even reacting to Stephen’s begging, just pushing down harder and harder.

“I—I’ll do anything!”

The pain stopped.

There was no boot on his hands anymore, nothing pressing them into the floor, grinding down on them, crushing them worse than before. They looked unblemished, rose skin shining in the light of the lab, no scars visible, no bones or stainless steel pins poking through his flesh. In fact, Stephen couldn’t feel any stainless steel pins in his hands at all. They were gone.

And with sudden clarity Stephen knew that Stark had activated _Extremis_ again.

There was no other explanation. Stephen’s hands were healed again, no nerve damage to be detected, no surgery wounds visible. For the second time today. Stephen had witnessed the same miracle twice and he was speechless.

He kept sitting on the ground, trying to catch his breath, to pull himself together again, while tears were still running wildly over his face, dripping to the ground, right onto his newly healed hands. It wasn’t like Stephen was stupid or mentally stunted, but his brain had a hard time coming to terms with everything that had happened right now—namely Stark deactivating _Extremis_ , then crushing his hands to a point where it would have been better to amputate them, and when Stephen had finally given in, Stark had reactivated _Extremis_ and fixed Stephen’s hands. Just like that. Like it was no big deal. It was a lot to process.

“So, as I see it, we have a deal,” Stark drawled and Stephen finally looked up, his sight still blurred by tears. But he was sure the other man had a smug grin on his face, knowing he had Stephen under his control. It was humiliating.

Stephen wanted to protest, but he was too exhausted and hurt too much to muster up the courage to disobey and face the consequences once again. He wasn’t sure if he would survive a second _no_ out of his mouth—at this point he was sure Stark was ready to kill to get what he wanted. And Stephen didn’t want to risk it. His life had turned out worse after his accident, but he wasn’t ready to throw it away.

Maybe it was only for a few days and then he could leave, keeping his healed hands. It was only his expertise that was needed here and nothing else, and at one point he wouldn’t be useful anymore. And if _he_ didn’t do it, someone else would. At least Stephen tried to tell himself that.

So he nodded. Defeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a short mention of a pet being put down and child abuse (literally one sentence that contains both). Also warning for graphic injuries/violence. If you wanna skip that, stop reading after
> 
> _“I can’t!” He sobbed, finally, throwing himself to the wolves. Or rather to the one wolf, kneeling on the floor right in front of him, teeth bared and already biting down on Stephen’s neck, about to break it with one swift movement._
> 
> and start again at
> 
> _And with sudden clarity Stephen knew that Stark had activated_ Extremis _again._

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me over at Tumblr: [descaladumidera](https://descaladumidera.tumblr.com/)


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